


Praise then Darkness

by GloriaMundi



Category: The Left Hand of Darkness - Ursula K. Le Guin
Genre: Gift Fic, Other, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My advice, Therem, is only this: will you let the story shape you, brother? Or will you shape a new tale?"</p><p>Therem's luck turns, and turns again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Praise then Darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jain/gifts).



### Ehrenrang, Getheny Irrem, Year One.

I wonder sometimes if Esvans knew, all along, how our fates would fall. Perhaps he had, as I do, that sense of the great wheel turning at a touch; of knowing when to nudge the wheel and change the world's course. Why would any parent name his children for men in an old tale of death and betrayal? Why, unless he apprehended the fates of those children, and saw past and present and future all at once?

It's a reasonable theory: if I could inherit Esvans' even temperament and my brother Arek his broad face, why should my gift of foresight -- a gift I have cheapened and wasted here in Ehrenrang, in the service of a mad king and his petty courtiers -- not be another gift from our parent?

Arek and Therem, Therem and Arek: in the old story they were mortal foes who vowed kemmering, and Therem bore a child, and Arek was slain by Therem's kin. In that story Arek's parent was Lord Sorve. And for a certainty I felt the world's fate at my fingertips when the child first nursed at my breast, and I sat there fat and aching and happy, and looked up at Arek, and said, "His name is Sorve".

### Estre, Tormenbod Osme, twenty-three-ago.

The first kemmer of the Hearth's younger son was occasion for celebration. Therem stood stiffly as Esvans and the Hearth Elders dressed him in new clothes: new boots, new trousers, a fine white knitfur shirt and a brilliantly red hieb, over-embroidered with elaborate curlicues worked in gold thread.

Esvans drew his younger child aside. "When you come out from the kemmer-house, you will have shifgrethor," he said. "It would be an insult to presume to advise you then. But indulge me, and let me give you advice for the last time."

Therem, mute and tense, nodded.

"Remember: it is not given to any man to comprehend the turning of the wheel, or where that turn may take them. You will learn, as I did, not to ask the unanswerable question. You must learn, Therem! Learn when to speak and when to be silent: learn what can be questioned, and what should never be spoken."

"I hope that I will learn to be as wise as you," said Therem.

Esvans studied his child for a long moment. Therem had to look up to meet his parent's gaze, but he held it steadily.

Old Immeth was next, a hand on Therem's arm. "Remember," he said, "that it is your choice. Who is first: who is last. All are equal in the kemmerhouse. Oh," he added, at Therem's sullen look, "it could be your brother Arek. But it doesn't _have_ to be."

Esvans was standing there, watching the fine light rain fall silver on the flagstones: but his attention was all on Therem, and when Therem said, "It's Arek that I want," Esvans smiled, small and triumphant.

Then Arek was beside his sibling. He was already coming into kemmer, and he glowed with it. "My advice, Therem, is only this: will you let the story shape you, brother? Or will you shape a new tale?"

Therem stared wide-eyed at his brother. "We will shape it anew," he said, and let Arek take his hand and lead him through the door of the kemmer-house.

### Estre: Odarhad Irrem, twenty-ago.

When Arek's thokemmer ended and mine did not, I felt the weight of the world's fate pressing against my hand. As though this child I bore -- who at that moment can have been no more than a smear of stickiness in my womb -- might change the shape of the whole world.

But perhaps all mothers feel thus.

Both of us knew that this might happen. My cycle has never been regular, and might cheat the contraceptives that Arek had brought from Thather. We knew that, one kemmer, I might not return -- I say 'I', for though Arek is a full-mooner like me, his kemmer comes upon him anything from an hour to four hours before mine; and he tends to kemmer as a man, so I become a woman. So: it could, perhaps, have been Arek, but the likelihood was that if one of us fell pregnant, it would be me.

I am female now. I shall be female until the child is born, and then some months beyond. I will not be hunting in the thore-forests, or travelling to Ehrenrang, this year or next. I will be female next Odarhad Irrem. I will not be somer again until … perhaps until next Osme.

I find that I am afraid of being one thing, half a thing, for so very long. I am afraid of being a woman.

### Estre: Getheny Grende, twenty-ago.

It had been a long labour, and Therem lay still and limp in the bed he had shared with his brother, exhausted from the work of bringing another person into the world. Gesse and Miry had washed the sweat and blood from Therem's body: now they were down in the scullery, washing the soiled bedding. Immeth sat by the fire, cradling the babe, singing softly to it.

Esvans, with a single glance, bade Arek to follow him out of the room. When they were alone in the dark corridor, he said, "I am sorry."

Arek looked at him, the question plain in his face.

"I know that you love Therem, and he loves you. That, had you not been siblings, you would have vowed kemmering together. But you must part now that the child is born: there's no help for it, and I will not have you bring dishonour upon our Hearth."

Arek bowed his head. "Must I leave the Hearth?" he said, to the shadows on the floor.

"There is no need," said Esvans lightly, as though they spoke of a journey to one of the mountain farms.

"Therem," said Arek, but the words he would have spoken caught in his throat.

"For seven months yet he will be nursing the babe," said Esvans. His smile softened, became the simple fondness of a grandparent. "Nothing will change for half a year."

"Everything will change!" said Arek. "Our child --"

"The child will be loved," said Esvans.

### The Shadow-brothers: a hearth-tale told in Thather

Very-long-ago, in Thather, there were two brothers, Pessen and Hern, younger sons of a minor hearth, who vowed kemmering together. Then as now this was forbidden, and their parent-in-the-flesh imprisoned Pessen in a high tower and would not let him see Hern. But at the dark of the moon, they met in the kemmer-house and took kemmer together: and afterwards, when they were in somer again, they fled together into the moonless night and north to Rer. There they lived together as kemmerings, and told no man of their kinship: and Hern bore a child.

The moon had been dark when they left their home and there had been no light to cast a shadow: and so their shadows had lived on at Thather, still separate from one another, still yearning for one another, and their parent did not know that his children had fled.

In Thather, Shadow-Hern vowed kemmering with a man from Horeth, and because his vow to Pessen had never been spoken none knew him forsworn: and he was a shadow, without a shadow of his own, and so had no shifgrethor. Shadow-Pessen did not vow kemmering to anyone, but went to the kemmer-house every dark of moon, and if sometimes he met with shadow-Hern then none spoke of it.

In Rer, Pessen and Hern without their shadows found that their love for one another paled and grew faint, and their vow of kemmering seemed a trivial thing, to be set aside like a dish with no flavour. "Soon there will be nothing left of us," said Hern to Pessen, "and our child will be alone. I shall go to Thather and bring our shadows back."

But on the road to Thather Hern fell ill, and died: and when the news reached Rer Pessen remembered the love he had felt for his brother, and in his grief he could think of nothing save that he should return to Thather with the child.

When their parent saw Pessen and the child, he understood that the sons he had known were but shadows of his true sons. And Pessen took his shadow back, and was a whole man once more: but though he searched, he never again saw his brother's shadow.

### Estre: Posthe Osme, nineteen-ago.

Sorve my son is weaned, and at last I am in somer again. My body, ungendered once more, feels as strange to me now -- narrow-hipped, small-breasted, lacking that animal odour to my sweat -- as being female did at first. I suppose that a year is sufficient time to become accustomed to anything.

Soon (if my kemmer-time is still the dark of the moon) I shall have my first kemmer since Sorve was conceived. Immeth assures me that for the next few months, at least, it will be impossible for me to conceive. "You must learn to be in your body all over again," he says. "And you'll want to be male, the first time after you've mothered."

I have been thinking a great deal of late about the old hearth-tale, the story of the first Arek and the first Therem, as Sorve sucks and giggles and spits. Their doom seems very harsh. One to exile, one to death. Will I sign Arek's death-warrant if I leave Estre? Will I sign my own if I stay? For one of us must leave, and though Sorve is the child of my flesh I see already that he is more like Arek than like me. Arek loves him whole-heartedly (as Arek always loves): how can I deny him the chance to see his son grow to manhood?

I should not seek out Arek in the kemmer-house, yet I know that he will be seeking me.

I wonder if he has ever kemmered as a woman?

### LETTERS

Estre, Odstreth Osme, nineteen-ago: Therem to Arek.

This is the last letter I shall write from the rooms we have shared, and perhaps the last I shall ever write here at Estre. I don’t know yet where I will go, when I leave: I know only that leave I must, for your sake, and for our son’s.

I have told our parent that I will leave tomorrow. He was not surprised. I think that nothing surprises him. He said to me, "There is a world awaiting you." I think he meant it for comfort.

Summer is a good time to travel. A good time for new beginnings. Why then does this feel like an ending?

Praise then darkness, and creation unfinished.

Rer, Posthe Kus, nineteen-ago: Therem to Arek.

…I have never dwelt in a city before. Rer is as old as Estre, but far stranger: I do not know any of the people I meet: yet they welcome me as a guest. Today I drank orsh with a man named Berenth, who holds some rank in the Sinoth Valley Administration. He bemoaned the stubborn inadequacy of his subordinates. I could not give him advice, but I recounted some dusty tales from Estre and Stok.

I’ve always trusted my luck to lead me on the right path. I don’t know if my trust is justifiable any more.

Estre, Opposthe Kus, nineteen-ago: Arek to Therem.

Having an address to which to write, the ink freezes on my pen. What should I say? I am glad you are well. Our son took his first steps. Your name is not spoken here.

I miss you.

Sassinoth, Posthe Susmy, nineteen-ago: Therem to Arek.

Another new thing: I have never worked for money before. Berenth has installed me as his secretary in the Administration. My duties thus far are simple enough: to bring order to the mess of land-grants and border-claims that my predecessor left behind him.

Winter here will be hard. The light in the north, from the great Ice, reminds me already, always, of Estre.

Estre, Odorny Susmy, nineteen-ago: Arek to Therem.

I am glad you have found purpose. I trust your luck more than you do, it seems: you have the gift, Therem, of knowing which way to turn, when to act and when to wait. I _must_ trust your luck, or your absence -- your exile -- would be unbearable.

Sassinoth, Posthe Thern, seventeen-ago: Therem to Arek.

A year and a half since I left you. I have not forgotten. Yet the world turns slowly here, and -- from your letters -- all too swiftly in Estre. It’s hard to imagine Sorve speaking: and yet it is the easiest thing in the world, because I imagine him grown already, speaking with your voice.

Estre, Getheny Irrem, fifteen-ago: Arek to Therem.

The physician came again today. He says that the pain is a tumour: that it cannot be cut out without grave risk. He says that I have a year to live, no more.

Don’t come back. I can bear this pain, but I don’t think I could bear the pain of losing you again.

Passerer, Posthe Irrem, fifteen-ago: Therem to Arek.

The moon is full, and its light turns everything to blood. Praise then darkness.

I am in a small village on the Orgoreyn border. I do not know why I came here: the matter of the inn-keeper’s building permit could have been settled by letter.

We are both dead, you and I, shadowless like the men in the old story: yet we live on like ghosts. If I ever truly had luck, it is dead too: I have lost my way.

Estre, Odyrny Grende, fourteen-ago: Arek to Therem.

I do not choose my death: to do so would be to besmirch the honour of our Hearth. But I accept that I, like every man, must die: and though I grieve for those I must leave behind (and most of all for you whom I have lost already), I welcome the embrace of darkness, and an end to this wearying, insistent, useless pain.

_Two are one, life and death  
lying together like lovers in kemmer_

as Tormer's Lay has it: and so I must love death as I have loved life, welcome death as I have welcomed each new day.

Our son grows tall and fierce. I am sorry that I shall not know him as a man.

Will you return to Estre, when I am gone?

### Rotherer Fastness, Yrny Thern, fourteen-ago.

I sent myself into exile so that Arek might have the pleasure of watching our son grow. Now that he is dead, I could go home. But everything in me cries out in protest at the thought: what can I hope to achieve, in Estre?

I have wasted years wandering Karhide, learning its people and its places, accustoming myself to political life. I have overhauled the hierarchy, top to bottom, of the Sinoth Valley Administration: I have made speeches before the kyorremy, on subjects ranging from the Archipelago trade treaty to farming subsidies. I have slept in palaces and Transient-Houses. I have cut all my ties: there is no man who has a claim on me, no place that I call home… Six long years that I might have spent with Arek: with our son Sorve.

The last time I began to speak of our futures, to dream aloud about what could not be, Arek laid his hand across my mouth and bade me to silence with a kiss. Thus there was no vow to break when I left Estre with words choked in my throat and bitterness frozen in my heart. We had never spoken our vow: but we had never needed words, my brother and I.

I cannot go home, for home is dead.

I have resigned my post and come to Rotherer Fastness, as my namesake did after his Arek was slain. I hope that they will let me indwell here. I think that there are disciplines that will make celibacy easier to endure: I have not taken a kemmer-partner since I left home, but my self-restraint seems more futile, and more harrowing, every month.

Do they, hearing my name, remember the first Therem who came here footsore and pregnant so long ago? They have not said, and I shall not ask. I shall embrace my ignorance, and learn to forget old stories.

### The hunter and the child: a Karhidish hearth-tale, as told in Estre.

Long ago, two fur-trappers, Derbord and Tashe, were hunting white-fur pesthry on the Pering Storm-Border. Winter came early that year, without the usual harbingers, and they were already turning southward when a great storm roared down from the north and overtook them. They had outrun storms before, but their time of kemmer was nearly upon them, and so they pitched their tent as best they could, and settled down to wait out the weather.

Derbord and Tashe had vowed kemmering many years before, so when the fires of kemmer came upon them it was a comfortable thing for them to turn to one another in the small tent. They lay together in kemmer three nights and three days, while the storm raged outside, until Tashe was in somer again.

But Derbord, who had been the woman, remained in kemmer, and both Derbord and Tashe knew at once that they had conceived a child together. It was a joyful thing, welcome and terrifying at once, because they had long desired a child, but not expected or planned for it at that time. The storm was passing, but they had far to travel, and though their supplies would ordinarily have sustained them until they reached Shath, Derbord's pregnancy meant that he would need to eat much more than usual, especially in the first weeks of the child's growth.

When the sky was clear again they packed up their sledge and headed south, but Derbord was weaker than before, and very tired. Tashe cursed, for he wished to care for his kemmering and for the unborn child they had both yearned to conceive. On the second night of their journey, as Derbord lay curled close to their stove, Tashe said, "We need more food: I am going out to hunt. If I'm not back by morning, don't wait for me: I'll follow you south, and find you by noon."

In the morning, Derbord woke alone, and broke his fast alone, and packed the sledge alone. He wanted to wait for Tashe, but was afraid that Tashe would already have gone ahead. So he began to haul the sledge south.

When Derbord came to Shath he came alone, and pregnant, and weak with hunger and grief: but he and their unborn child were well enough. And when they asked "Where is Tashe?", Derbord only said, "He went out to hunt, so that we might have food enough to live."

### Rotherer Fastness, Getheny Grende, twelve-ago.

When Therem Harth came into the Foretelling circle, Tamor the Weaver could see at once that there was something different about him. He had come to like Harth, had found in him a kindred spirit. Harth's indomitable will had been tempered by a quiet, watchful humility. His voice, raised in the chants and lays, was dark and mellow. Two years in the Fastness had stripped the bitterness from him as it had stripped the traces of rich living from his body. Tamor had considered, more than once, asking Harth to become one of the Foretellers himself; a Celibate, perhaps, for he took no partner at his kemmer-time. But Tamor had not asked, for he thought -- or felt, or dreamt -- that Harth's gifts might yet bring greater reward elsewhere.

When Harth had come to him to ask for a Foretelling of his own, Tamor's heart had been heavy, for he knew that Harth would soon leave Rotherer. "The Foretellers won't meet again until Getheny Grende," he'd warned Harth: and Harth had given him a wry smile, and said that it was an auspicious date for new beginnings.

"I have a question for the Foretellers," said Harth now, without preamble. "My question is: where should I go, from here?"

Tamor let the Untrance come upon him, and speak through him: and his voice said, "It is answerable."

One of the Celibates began to chant, a low wavering melody: the elder of the Zanies raised up his head and stared at Harth, stared _through_ Harth, and tears sprang to his eyes.

Then the Weaving began, and the strands of past and future, foreshadow and memory, drifted down into the circle, and Tamor gave himself up to the light and the dark, the shadow on the snow, the dizzying apprehension of totality, the --

"Ehrenrang!" he cried out, surprising himself: and the echoes took up the word and redoubled, repeated, reverberated through time to a moment yet to come.

"Are you answered, Asker?" said Tamor when the ringing in his ears had died away.

"I am answered, Weaver," said Harth, and his smile was rare and sweet, and weary beyond measure.

### Ehrenrang, Getheny Irrem, Year One.

Things are changing in this country: Tibe's faction are steering us too fast, too far, down a path that leads to fear and aggression. Though I head Argaven's kyorremy, though I am called the King's Ear, it is in name only: Argaven is not sane, and he no longer heeds my counsel.

There is talk, in the inns and even on the radio, of an Alien: a being from beyond the Void, from another world. This Alien, they say, has come across the Void in a Star-Ship; has arrived on Horden Island in a blaze of fire and steam, and been brought to Ehrenrang as something between a guest and a curiosity. His name is Ai: spoken, it is like the cry of someone giving birth, or dying.

And perhaps it is like a birth, to know suddenly that there are other worlds, other men.

They say this Ai is a Pervert, permanently in kemmer as a man. Perhaps that is all he is: a madman fleeing some Fastness, deranged by his own visions. But my luck is turning, sparking like hot metal, and I am certain that the great wheel is poised, ready to shift at a single touch. 

I shall go and meet him.

-end-


End file.
